


New Wounds

by freezerjerky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love, depressing stuff written late at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Women shouldn’t like John as much as they do.<br/>Sherlock shouldn’t like him as much as he does, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sort of angst that happens after 1 a.m. when you should be writing essays and preparing for finals. For that I apologize.

It’s 3 a.m. and John is not home yet. Several hours ago, Sherlock began playing the violin in hopes of raising his friend’s spirits after his 65% likely unsuccessful date. (Only the second date, the woman is clearly looking for a long-term relationship, which is not what John could offer currently.) He would claim he was playing to stave off boredom when John trod in, of course.

                The music began as flowing concertos, the best in her repertoire, which was not unimpressive. By 11, it had turned into simple tunes. By this point, it was impatient screeching, abandoning all pretenses of music.

                John had to have gone home with the woman.

                That doesn’t sit well.

                Actually, it sits like a giant ball of lead in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. (Which is stupid, by the way, because similes are useless for actual human sensations.) It’s more accurately described as his stomach feeling as though it has sunk and his heart feeling constricted. (Which is even more stupid.) He could use even more scientific terminology, but that doesn’t seem necessary at this point in time, because this shouldn’t matter.

                John’s got wrinkles and he’s shorter than the national average. (Which isn’t that tall to begin with.) He’s a doctor, a damn good one at that, and he’s compassionate. He makes tea every morning and every night, and he’s good at that too.  Most days he’s dressed in a medley of inconspicuous shirts, frumpy jumpers, and almost youthful cardigans. For all intents and purposes, he’s a relatively ordinary human being. Women shouldn’t like him as much as they do.

                Sherlock shouldn’t like him as much as he does, either.

                When the clock hits 3:15, he attempts to play something coherent again, but he can’t manage. Each time his bow screeches on the violin, he feels as if he’s willing John to walk through the door.  Hopefully with some excuse.

                _My cab got caught in a traffic jam._

 _Her cat died and I had to comfort her._

 _My cab got caught in a traffic jam and then the cab hit her cat and I had to comfort her and buy her a new cat._

 _I went home with her but decided that the only person I want to be with is you._

 _I’m a simple-minded idiot._

                None of these seem remotely plausible.

 

                John comes home at 9. Sherlock already knows what happened, but he has to see for himself.

                “I take it you didn’t sleep?” John comments.

                Sherlock grunts at him from his position on the couch. He stopped attempting to play the violin at approximately 5:43 and simply sprawled himself on the sofa, with no intention of budging until he had to. Possibly ever.

                “Looks like you didn’t either,” Sherlock manages to say, at last.

                Hair uncombed. The same clothes as the night before. (Blue checked shirt, brown cardigan, jeans, and brogues.) (Minus one sock.) Bags under eyes. Disposition toward smiling. (Content.) Stiffness in the neck and left shoulder. Tiny purple mark detectable at base of neck. Lips still moderately swollen.

                “Probably got more than you did,” John replies. “Do you want something to eat? A cuppa at least?”

                “Two sugars.”

                Sherlock rolls over and begins to debate the physical impossibility of curling into himself and disappearing.

 

                There are a few weeks to cover up this new surprising wound. Then there’s another woman. Another three dates. Even Sherlock bloody Holmes has his limits and knows when to stop staying up waiting. Instead, he tries to sleep for once, retreating to his room almost immediately after John leaves. Maybe he can delete the date if he doesn’t see his flatmate return the next morning. It’s hard to delete any moment when John’s actually present. As soon as he’s in the door, the idea is null and void.

                Around midnight, just as he swears he is actually about to fall asleep, he hears the door open. Hope grips his heart and he sits bolt upright, until he hears a very feminine giggle. John has a woman with him.

                “Must be out,” he hears John’s hushed tone, “or asleep for once.”

                Each step he hears go up the stairs sends a jolt through him. They’re not stopping at coffee; they’re not even going for the pretence of stopping up for coffee.  Whatever is going on is too quiet for even keenly tuned ears to hear. A giggle pierces the air. It shouldn’t sound like a harpy cry, but it does. It’s sensual and Sherlock feels bile rising in his throat. The noises come crashing down on him, and he slides into his bed, pulling the duvet completely over himself.

                There’s a masculine groan coming from the upstairs room. A shiver runs through Sherlock and despite his disgust, he’s half hard. He imagines what it would be like to be in that bed upstairs, kissing John’s neck and softly murmuring his name. Sex is generally distasteful to him, but with John he would make it good. He’s experimented, he could make it good. He’d like it, love it even. Wanting it isn’t enough.

                He doesn’t sleep that night. It’s no major change to his normal pattern.

 

                He enters the kitchen the next morning armed with his normal cold demeanour. John is leaning against the counter, reading the paper and sipping a cup of coffee. His face looks exceptionally relaxed and he is humming.

                “Where is your lady friend this morning?” Sherlock asks.

                “She left. She has a dog at home that needed taken care of.”

                “Shame. Would have liked to meet her.”

                “No you wouldn’t have. You’d have liked to deduce her. It seemed a bit late for that,” John replies, scowling.

                The clothes John wears tell Sherlock nothing he wants to know. The t-shirt is probably about two sizes too big, the lounge pants dragging on the ground. His feet are bare. This tells him nothing that he actually wants to know.

                “We should set some rules for this, yeah?” John begins, placing the paper on the counter.

                “About?”

                “Bringing women back to the flat. This is the first it happened.”

                “You’ve brought several dates back to the flat before this, John, don’t be obtuse.”

                “You know what I mean. I’ll try not to do it, and I never will if you’re on the case. We’ll stay out of your way. I just need to know that it’s okay with you.”

                John looks at him, doubtful as to what the actual response will be. Sherlock mulls over the possibilities.

                _Women aren’t like experiments; keep them out of our flat._

 _I’d prefer if you didn’t waste your time with idle past times like casual sex._

 _You’re going to kill me if you keep on bringing people back here for sex. I lo-_

Even in the privacy of his own mind, he can’t finish that thought.

                _I won’t work with you if you do this anymore. It’s not fair to me._

 _You can do what you want, but I’d prefer if you wanted me._

 _I want you._

 _Mine._

“It’s fine,” he says, forcing a half smile.


End file.
